


Quarter-Past Ten

by brinnybee



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is one hundred percent a sleepy cuddly warmth thief dont change my mind, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 15:43:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20566838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnybee/pseuds/brinnybee
Summary: It's a sweet sort of selfishness and Aziraphale's pretty sure they could build a cathedral-- or, better, ahome-- out of it alone.





	Quarter-Past Ten

It’s a rainy Saturday in late January, dark and chill chased by a toothy wind. Poor weather for the intrepid souls who wish to venture out on a weekend, but perfect for any contented to while a day indoors.

Aziraphale counts himself among the latter, content to watch rain slide down the bit of window he can see peeking through the small gap in their moss-green curtains (the color had been a contentious compromise). Crowley is asleep beside him, legs tangled with his own and forehead against Aziraphale's left shoulder, his long lines and angles for once missing their usual anxiousness. Slow, cool breaths trickle down his arm, held fast in the curl of both of the demon’s own. Despite the recent acquisition of their California king (less a compromise; Aziraphale never stopped insisting it would be a waste as he did not sleep, and it had just turned up one suspicious day when Crowley had been surprisingly gentlemanly), Crowley still encroaches into his territory faithfully every night until he invariably rouses mashed onto the angel's half the bed. (It’s not so terrible a not-compromise, all things considered; Aziraphale can read just as well in bed as at his desk.)

Since his earth-shattering discovery of human beds and pillows some millennia ago, Crowley has proven a fantastic and enthusiastic sleeper. He’s confessed to Aziraphale, inhumanly honest and open and trusting, that it’s the security, too; the soothing safety of mundane walls and roofs and the stillness of the world within them make it so easy for him to sleep. No drifting away on some cosmic or karmic tidal change to fret about, no skittering and scratching and hissing that sounded in every corner Below. 

And, above or below all, perhaps Crowley sleeps well and long for knowing there’s another pair of eyes and ears and impossible sense and senses about, taking immeasurable comfort and reassurance in the presence of such a loved companion.

And so Aziraphale lets him sleep even as the clock on their shared nightstand rolls past ten o’clock. The soft, wet patter on the roof and windows is both muffling curtain and encouraging lullaby, and even the ever-wakeful angel has almost drifted off on that gentle hush when sound and movement drags him gently back to the shores of wakefulness. A roll of thunder finally rumbles through the rain, and Crowley makes a small noise in response. All at once he pushes himself up on a sharp elbow in one sleep-stiff movement and releases Aziraphale's arm in the process.

His nose is crinkled, yellow eyes squinted to blink towards the window. A grey and wet world greets him. Perfectly mundane. Blessedly and damnably ordinary.

Aziraphale takes advantage of his sudden freedom to stretch his once-caught arm, laying it across the pillows and flexing his fingers to get the blood flowing proper again. The fingers of his vessel tingle, though not unpleasantly. “Time’ssss it?” Crowley mumbles, hissing, digging the heel of a palm into his eyes before blinking rapidly now at the clock waiting at the angel's side of the bed. He can’t quite make the numbers out, improperly angled and sleep-fuzzy as he is. But there seems an extra digit in that green LED blur, four numbers instead of the usual three. Leaning up and over across the other form, the demon reaches towards the nightstand. For his sunglasses or the clock, Aziraphale isn’t sure. It doesn't matter, truly.

Whatever Crowley's goal, the angel intercepts his demon mid-stretch. He hauls Crowley gently back down into their seafoam sheets and takes his own turn to hold possessively. Protectively, maybe. He knows how Crowley mislikes the wet and the chill. With arms curled around Crowley's waist and his cheek against the demon's sternum, the angel listens to the blessed beating of an infernal heart. It’s familiar country here, huddled together on half a bed. Their side. Their knees don’t fumble and knock anymore, even; sliding expertly into known territory. Familiar topography.

“It does not matter,” Aziraphale answers, and knows the slim fingers sliding up through his hair are an agreement as Crowley curls into and against and around him. Serpentine, supple, seeking (and finding) warmth and comfort and something older than even himself. The sea meeting the shore, the ocean trying to keep and claim some sunken treasure all for itself. It's a sweet sort of selfishness and Aziraphale's pretty sure they could build a cathedral-- or, better, a _home_\- out of it alone. Supposes they already have.

There’s a hellfire heartbeat against his ear, underlined by the rain and there’s nothing more pressing that needs tending today. “It does not matter, dear,” he repeats, and the promise therein makes Crowley yawn. His fingers card through the angel's hair barely three times before stilling when he drops off again to sleep.

Aziraphale follows him into those still depths before too long; as ever a few steps behind, but endeavoring to keep up.

**Author's Note:**

> _Oh_, but am i caught by these two.
> 
> First, tiny little exploratory dip of my toe into the proverbial waters of writing them.


End file.
